I can withstand anything
I thought of where to put my experience, and honestly, this is where it ended up. It is definitely a scarification experience, MY scarification experience, although it will be so different from so many others.
When I was 16, I dated someone who by all testing standards is truly a sociopath and psychotic. Oh, the lessons we learn as we age. I thought I could change him and that if I was better, or looked better, or behaved better, he would end up treating me better. I tried each day to be the demure girl he wanted me to be, biting my tongue when he would tell me he was going to put hooks in my body and hang me from a tree to teach me a lesson, or nail my hand to a table to teach me respect. A thousand warnings went off, but I heeded none.
One night I was at his house and these ramblings about how I needed to be taught a lesson were intensifying. I got it in my head I would call my friend and leave, but my lovely "boyfriend" had other plans. I remember, in a crazy haze, watching him get out art supplies and watching him clean his X-acto knives and his glucometer (for testing blood sugar for diabetics). I think I might have said something, but can't be sure. It is clear, this many years later that I was drugged. I found out after the fact he, more often than not, laced my drinks with pills to keep me sedated.
I watched him write "DUMB CUNT" on my arm in magic marker, and as I started to protest I blacked out. I don't remember him tying my arm down, let alone tying it at my wrist and my elbow. I truly believe this was so that it would bleed more or something, because later on, he was in awe of how much blood there was on his wooden couch armrest. I came to when I felt the knife make the first cut on the "D". I jerked back and started freaking out, yelling and screaming. When he calmly told me he could be nice, or not nice, I realized I didn't have much choice. His parents were out, and no one would come to my rescue. I shut up quickly.
I decided at that point that he may cut me, and he may even make me bleed, but I would not pull back, I would not react at all. He cut the "D" and the "U" over and over; I thought he would never stop. It didn't really hurt much after the first initial cuts on each letter, and I think it bothered him that he couldn't get me to cry, or to react. He switched to the glucometer, tracing the rest of the letters over and over and over again. It was painstakingly slow, and I thought I wouldn't make it through. I was woozy and felt like I was going to vomit. He then took the knife and connected the dots. As strange as that sounds, it truly was like a child connecting the dots, he was so "proud" of his accomplishment.
He kept cleaning the cuts with rubbing alcohol, and then cutting them again, and cleaning it again. Honestly, I understand why rubbing alcohol isn't used in healing anything, because boy did it aggravate! But I refused to give into my body, which I think was going into shock.
The cutting and scarring of my body stopped when the letters were all done and he was just looking at his work. I felt a smile on MY face, because I knew I had spoiled it for him - he wasn't enjoying this victory. know I should have said something, but all I could think was "That wasn't that bad! Don't make too much out of this!" I bandaged it up, and he took me home, never speaking to me the whole way. I immediately took a shower and put ointment on it before rewrapping it so as not to alert my parents.
I realize I look like a loser, and people will wonder why I put this here. I wanted the opposite of what most strive for with scarification - I wanted it to heal and I didn't want the scars. I broke up with him and wanted to forget everything that had happened. Every day I rubbed vitamin E oil over the scabs. I played with the tissue so it wouldn't harden. I used all sorts of over the counter ointments which are supposedly good for cuts and burns, all so that I wouldn't walk around for the rest of my life with "DUMB CUNT" on my arm. I never picked the scabs, even though I wanted to. I wore long sleeves until the scabs were off, and added a few weeks for good measure because I didn't want to have to explain.
The irony, looking back, is that I was dumb. It escalated to places it didn't need to escalate. I can tell you, 13 years later, that I still have a "D" and a "U" on my right forearm, but the rest healed without scarring. It seems he did me a favour using the glucometer, because it didn't go deep enough to leave the rest of his hateful words on me forever.
Each time I look at those letters, I realize how strong I really am. There is nothing that he did to me that I cannot rise above, and nothing symbolizes this more to me than those stupid letters.
I have been talking to my friends, many of which are involved in the IAM community about wanting either skin removal or branding, and I will likely incorporate it, or work around, what is already there. I know, based on the scarring procedure I went through, that anything else would be a piece of cake. Every experience I have read talks about the mental aspect of branding/scarification/skin removal, and I know first hand the mental fortitude it takes to withstand the pressure on your body.
Like a Phoenix, I too can rise from the ashes. My tears must have healing power, because I cried often over my arm, and it, along with my psyche, appears to have healed. I look forward to finding someone local who will be able to work with me to make beautiful the scars that were meant to demean.
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 10 Jan. 2005